Almost Electric
by OMG-Orlaith
Summary: Short, post Reichenbach, angst. *Drug use* Passed out on the bathroom floor of 221B, Sherlock reflects, and he soon wishes he hadn't. Eventually, it justs gets too much.


The almost electric feel of the drugs pulsing through my veins sends my head spinning. I collapse on the bathroom floor, my head hitting the tiles with a sickening crack. To my surprise, I remain completely conscious, which makes it all the more terrifying.

For the second time in my life, I feel true panic. It shocks me far more than my reaction to the drugs; that, I am used to. My eyes flutter between open and shut, and all I can see is flashes of white porcelain and empty syringes. I gasp for breath, and feeling my hands shake violently, I struggle into a sitting position.

My ID card lies next to me.

_Prof. Sherlock Holmes. Department of Forensic Science. _

The college will be expecting my speech on psychopathology tomorrow, but luckily the board of management are rather used to my no-shows. They stopped asking questions months ago, and half-heartedly proceeded onto asking me not to do it again. They just don't bother anymore.

I'm quite surprised that I haven't been let go yet. I don't try to get fired, but I also don't try _not _to. Which basically sums up most of what I've been doing for the past two years. Half-trying, barely functioning.

That being said, I _do_ function. I occasionally go out with Molly and Lestrade, and I see Mycroft at least once a week. Mycroft insists that this is obligatory, but I still go. Despite everything that has been going on, I guess I'm not finished yet.

I should be asking myself "How did I get here?" Lying on the bathroom floor of 221B, doubled over in pain, maybe even dying. I could be. I certainly don't feel too great. 'Dying of a drug overdose' has a rather tragic tone to it, don't you think? Bound by an addiction that is out of my power. That certainly is the case with most addicts, but with me?

I am disgusting.

I remember walking home, snow collecting in my collar, a feeling of horrified anticipation twisting and turning in my stomach. I reached the door, not rethinking any of my decisions in case I would decide against them. The rest of the evening was a blur of John's furious yells, quite a few "Do you have any idea what I've been through?"'s, a hell of a lot of "I never want to live with, speak to or even see you again!"'s, and unashamedly I admit there were a few tears. Most of them were angry, hurt tears.

So I moved back in. And John moved out straight away. I haven't seen him in quite some time, and he's married with children now. He doesn't want me near them, which is understandable. He's also changed his number about three times, but I have his current one. It was ridiculously easy to get. I don't contact him, as all that would do is send him into a rage and he'd probably move away. Again.

I strain to reach one of the remaining full syringes, sending it rolling in my direction and clinking in front of me. The liquid inside is glistening, nearly as clear and pure as water. With only a moment's hesitation, I send the needle into my arm and press the plunger. I feel the shock of it entering my system, and this time there is no maybe about it. I am dying.

I fumble for my phone in my pocket, scrabbling at the keys until my contacts appear. I click on _J. Watson_, willing him to pick up.

"_Hello?" _The voice on the other side is muffled, but recognizable. John has probably just woken up.

"It's me." I stutter.

"_I thought I made it very clear that you were never to call me, Sherlock. Especially at three in the morning. My kids are asleep." _He groans.

"I know. I just wanted to say that you can never hate me as much as I do. Goodbye."

"_No. No, Sherlock. Not again._" His voice is suddenly alert, focused. Distraught.

"I'm already dead to you, anyway. Don't blame yourself."

I hang up, the tone still ringing in my ears as the phone falls from my fingers. I can't move; my body stiff and my eyes closing. I can't even keep them open anymore. So I just stop trying.

Half an hour later, after making hasty explanations to his wife and spending a considerable amount of time searching for a cab, John Watson arrives to a quiet 221B Baker Street. His feet move slowly, numb horror creeping up on him.

He sees his friend, still warm, life having just left him less than an hour before. It really was a power out of Sherlock's control.


End file.
